


Stasis

by kjack89



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Disability, Established Relationship, M/M, Paralysis, Permanent Injury, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-31
Updated: 2013-10-31
Packaged: 2017-12-31 01:50:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1025872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a drunk driving accident, which didn't surprise anyone.</p>
<p>It wasn't Grantaire behind the wheel, which did surprise everyone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stasis

**Author's Note:**

> Usual disclaimer: I own nothing. All mistakes are my own.

It was a drunk driving accident, which didn’t surprise anyone.

It wasn’t Grantaire behind the wheel, which did surprise everyone.

Of course it was his luck - for all Bossuet’s talk of misfortune, Grantaire thought sometimes that his own bad luck took the cake, really - that on the one day he decided to be responsible and not drive when he shouldn’t (knowing that Enjolras would only yell at him for getting behind the wheel after he’d been drinking), on the one day he decided to shell out for a cab, that taxi would get t-boned at a stoplight by a drunk driver.

He supposed he was lucky in the sense that he remembered none of the accident, not really - headlights coming at him and the sudden desperate thought,  _Fuck, Enjolras is going to be pissed_.

But then there was darkness.

And then…then there was pain.

He would love to lie and say that it didn’t hurt too badly, coming to consciousness, but the truth is that were he offered a choice between white light and nothingness versus the pain of waking up, he was pretty sure he would have chosen the white light. Not even the thoughts of Enjolras swimming through his mind could make the pain worth it.

As it was, though, despite his best intentions, perhaps, the pain was intensifying as his world seemed to grow lighter, as his eyelids fluttered open. “Enjolras?” he gasped, making sense of the crushing pain in his hand. “Enjolras - my hand—”

Instantly the pain in his hand was gone, replaced by a voice whispering over and over, “Grantaire? Grantaire?”

Grantaire fully opened his eyes. “Hey,” he muttered, his voice hoarse and painful.

“Grantaire.” The relief in Enjolras’s voice was evident and he stroked Grantaire’s cheek gently. “Grantaire, baby, you have no idea how happy I am to see you awake.”

If he hadn’t already known something was wrong, that would have alerted him to it. Enjolras, as much as Grantaire loved him, was not exactly the hold-his-hand-and-call-him-baby kind of boyfriend; Enjolras was all about distracted pats on the head that sometimes made Grantaire feel more like a dog than a boyfriend, or starting conversations and trailing off in the middle because his mind was on eighteen other things. Enjolras was loving and loyal to a fault, make no mistake, but easy signs of affection like this…not so much.

“What happened?” Grantaire asked, trying to sitting up, but seeming unable to do so.

Enjolras’s face fell slightly. “You…you were in an accident,” he said softly, dropping his hand to pick up Grantaire’s again, squeezing it lightly. “Do you remember the accident?”

Grantaire closed his eyes for a long moment. “I remember thinking you were going to be mad at me,” he whispered. “Am I…what’s wrong with me?” Enjolras seemed unable to answer and Grantaire struggled to sit up, frustrated that his legs didn’t seem to work. “Enjolras, what the fuck is wrong with me?”

Enjolras took a deep, shuddering breath, and told him softly, “You’re paralyzed from the waist down. Permanently.”

* * *

 

Grantaire pushed the wheels of his wheelchair, rolling into the front room of the apartment as he looked around. He had only just gotten out of the hospital after three long months of recovery, of rehabilitation, of learning to live with his disability (when he had found out that he could still have sex, he had practically cried with relief, which made Joly, who had delivered the news, incredibly awkward).

Enjolras insisted on not calling it a disability, saying that he wasn’t disabled, that he was just different now.

Grantaire thought that was bullshit.

Still, he had looked forward to going home until Enjolras reminded him that they’d be going to their new apartment, to the one he had rented for them, since Grantaire could no longer make it up the five flights of stairs to their old apartment.

The new one was all wrong.

It was big, and spacious, and Grantaire didn’t want to think about how much of Enjolras’s trust fund had been blown on first and last month’s rent. The furniture was arranged so that Grantaire’s wheelchair could fit through every hallway, through every room. The entire thing was ADA-compliant, right down to the handicap access rail in the bathtub.

Grantaire found himself staring at it, the silver rail anchored into the wall at the height that Grantaire could imagine Enjolras pressing him against the tile as they showered together, his mouth slipping from Grantaire’s lips to Grantaire’s neck, his hand moving between them, using the water and soap for its slickness as Grantaire threw his head back in ecstasy…

“Do you like it?” Enjolras asked anxiously, hovering as always three steps behind Grantaire. “I made sure that it had perfect access for you so that there wouldn’t be any problems or any difficulties, to make your transition as smooth and as easy as possible…”

Grantaire forced a smile on his face, turning his wheelchair around to face Enjolras. “It’s perfect,” he told him, lying through his teeth. “I love it.”

* * *

 

Three months later and they still weren’t back on any semblance of a routine, anything that resembled their previous life together. Enjolras hovered and fussed over him and acted like a mother hen. Grantaire was drinking more than ever, whiling the days and his pathetic existence away.

Enjolras spent most of his time researching a variety of things to possibly help Grantaire, tools and techniques to help his continued adjustment to living as differently abled, as well as new studies for regenerative treatments, experimental procedures, possible prosthetic implants to assist in walking, so-called miracle cures.

The only miracle that Grantaire wanted was Enjolras to stop talking about it.

But of course he wouldn’t; Enjolras knew only single-minded devotion. He did nothing by halves. And so he continued with this, as well as treating Grantaire like he was made of glass and might shatter at any moment.

They hadn’t had sex since Grantaire had come back from the hospital.

Grantaire would have said something to Enjolras about it, but a part of him was terrified, terrified of the reality even more plainly displayed than normal: Enjolras was as beautiful as ever, strong and determined, and Grantaire…Grantaire now physically represented his inner brokenness. And if Enjolras wasn’t hovering or fussing…would he even care at all?

So he said nothing and he let it fester in him until he thought if he didn’t say anything, he might explode screaming at Enjolras to just leave him the fuck alone.

Since even he recognized that this was unhealthy, he texted Combeferre and asked him to come over when he knew Enjolras wasn’t going to be there. “I need to talk to you,” Grantaire said without preamble as Combeferre let himself into the apartment. “It’s about Enjolras. And me, I suppose.”

Combeferre did not look surprised as he took a seat on the couch. “What about Enjolras?” he asked calmly.

Grantaire found himself unable to properly articulate everything he wanted to say. “Things…since I got out of the hospital…things between us have been…difficult. To say the least. And I don’t know if I can handle things going on like this anymore.”

“I’m not a psychologist,” Combeferre informed him gently, crossing his arms in front of his chest as he peered at Grantaire over the rims of his glasses. “You should really be going to see someone professional about this.”

Grantaire shook his head. “I’m not interested in spilling my feelings to some stranger. I want to talk about Enjolras. And you know him best.”

Combeferre met his gaze squarely. “No,” he said quietly, raising one eyebrow at him. “ _You_  know him best. Better than I do, or perhaps more accurately, in different ways than I do.” When Grantaire just stared right back at him, Combeferre sighed and leaned forward. “Very well. What about Enjolras?”

It took a long moment for Grantaire to put together exactly what he wanted to say. “Why does he keep dwelling on it?” he asked, frustration coloring his tone as he gestured at his wheelchair. “Why can’t he accept that this is the way things are now, and that we have to move on, that we can’t keep thinking about things that will never change?”

Combeferre closed his eyes for a brief moment. “He…it’s ok to mourn the things you’ll never have again, and everyone grieves in his own way. This is just Enjolras’s way of mourning.”

“But why can’t we also celebrate the fact that I’m alive?” Grantaire challenged, his eyes flashing. “Why can’t he be grateful and happy that I’m here at all? Why is he constantly talking about new studies and new experimental therapies and new treatment and this and that and all the things to try and get me my legs back? Why can’t he ever just accept me the way that I am?”

“Because it’s not about that,” Combeferre said sharply. “It’s not that he doesn’t accept you the way that you are. He  _loves_  you just the way that you are. What he can’t accept - what goes completely against everything in his very being - is that there’s nothing he can do to try and help. And maybe that’s misguided and maybe that’s not what you need right now and I’m not trying to tell you that you should. I’m just saying that trying to do something, dwelling on the things he does, it’s Enjolras’s way of coping.” When Grantaire remained silent, Combeferre added softly, “You aren’t the only one who lost something.”

* * *

 

Per Combeferre’s advice, Grantaire knew he had to talk to Enjolras when Enjolras returned from work, and so as soon as Enjolras walked in the door, Grantaire said, “We need to talk.”

He winced at the harshness of the words as Enjolras froze in the doorway, setting his briefcase down carefully on the floor. “Grantaire?” he asked quietly, crossing over to him, shedding his coat as he walked in. “What’s going on, baby?”

“Um, that?” Grantaire said weakly, all of his carefully prepared speech disappearing from his mind. “The whole ‘baby’ thing, and watching me constantly and hovering all the time…I mean, I’m not gonna shatter or something, you know?”

Enjolras was looking at him carefully, his expression blank. “You don’t want me to show you affection?”

Grantaire shook his head quickly. “No!” He paused, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t want you to treat me  _differently_. I’m still the same person as I was, this chair be damned.”

The expression on Enjolras’s face didn’t change. “But things  _are_  different,” he said softly. “You’re different. As am I. And I’m…I’m trying to make this as easy as possible for both of us, but especially for you, for living with what’s happened to you, to dealing with this now and for the rest of your life. Why is that such a bad thing?”

Closing his eyes, Grantaire told him, “It’s not just  _that_ , I mean, I appreciate the effort, truly, but…you and the damned treatments and therapies and cures and whatever else…I don’t want to hear about them all the time, Enjolras. I want our life to be what it was.”

Now Enjolras’s face hardened. “Forgive me for trying to be as helpful as I can,” he said with a touch of his old acidity. “I reiterate - why is that such a bad thing?”

“Because I don’t want to be reminded of everything I’ve lost!” Grantaire burst out, his knuckles white as they gripped the arms of his wheelchair. “Because I want to know that we can still make a life together, that you still love me and want me if I’m never able to be completely whole again. Because I would take you in whatever form I could have you in, because I fucking love you more than anything in my life, but you…”

Enjolras was staring at him with something close to horror written across his face and Grantaire blinked and looked down. “I just want to know that you still want me, even like this.”

He didn’t look up until Enjolras knelt in front of him, taking his hands in his own, forcing Grantaire to meet his eyes. “You think that I don’t want you? How…” His breath seemed to catch in his throat, and he asked in a broken voice, “How could you think that? What have I done to  _make_  you think that?” When Grantaire still didn’t answer, Enjolras began to cry, and he raised Grantaire’s hands to his lips, kissing them repeatedly. “I love you, I  _love_  you, I love  _you_. Regardless of what’s happened to you, regardless of what may ever happen to you in the future. I will never  _not_  want you.”

“You can’t mean that,” Grantaire told him, a little desperately, picturing his worst fears in his head, Enjolras exhausted after a long day’s work, pushing Grantaire in his wheelchair, greying prematurely, lines creasing his face. How could Enjolras  _not_  resent him,  _not_  wish he was whole, was different than he was? “I’m broken. I will  _always_  be broken.”

“You are  _not_  broken,” Enjolras said fiercely. “You  _aren’t_. I have never thought that and I never will. Everything that I have done, it hasn’t been for me, because I think you’re—you’re defective or something. It’s been because I want to do everything in my power to help you for  _your_  sake, not for mine.” He reached out to tentatively cup Grantaire’s cheek. “I love you. I will always love you.”

Grantaire closed his eyes and leaned into Enjolras’s touch. “Then for now…please…stop with the hope and the prayers and the miracle cures. Just be with me, the way I am now. The way we used to be, before all this happened. Love me just like you did before.” He paused and added in a voice so quiet it almost broke Enjolras’s heart, “Please.”

Enjolras closed the space between them, capturing Grantaire’s lips with his own. They had not kissed like this in months, and Grantaire fisted his fingers in Enjolras’s hair, kissing him hungrily, and Enjolras kissed him back just as fiercely. When they finally resurfaced for air, Enjolras leaned his forehead against Grantaire’s and told him softly, “But it isn’t exactly the same as before. I know what it’s like to think I might lose you, and I can’t…I can’t go back from that.”

“But you have me. Even if I’m like this, you still have me. Either of us could die tomorrow, but right here, right now, we have each other. And that  _has_  to be enough for you. For us.”

Enjolras nodded, leaning in to kiss Grantaire again. “It is enough,” he whispered, stroking Grantaire’s cheek with the pad of his thumb. “I promise you that.”


End file.
